


Walking On Broken Glass

by Katzedecimal



Series: Lean On Me [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post-Season/Series 04, detailed psychological techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: Picking up the pieces, only to smash them again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Telling a few of the stories that were hinted at in [_Do You Love Me Enough That I Can Be Weak With You?_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9651386)

"Let me explain! Please!!"

Molly blinked at him. She didn't know what she'd been expecting but it wasn't this. Flowers, little gifts, some kind of smooth introduction to con her into giving him an ear (not literally, in this case, that would come later.) 

Not this. Not Sherlock Holmes empty-handed, knuckles red from wringing, hair mussed, anxious and clearly distressed, looking like he was about to cry. "You said it was for a case," she said, "What kind of case requires you to do that to me?"

"A case that was just like Bart's, it was exactly like Bart's, Molly."

Sherlock didn't like to repeat himself and here he was repeating himself. She still didn't invite him in but she did lean against the door frame. "So, John was going to die if you didn't do that to me?"

Sherlock gazed into her eyes. "Not John," he said softly, "You."

She felt herself blanch. "M-me? But... wh... why- .. how?" Movement behind Sherlock attracted her eye and she looked past his shoulder to see people in body armour with kits.

"She told us your flat was bombed," Sherlock said, following her glance, "Then she told us she'd lied. We'd just like to be certain which was the lie."

Molly felt her stomach start to roil. She nodded and stepped back to open the door and admit the bomb squad. Behind them, she noticed a tall man she recognised as Sherlock's brother, talking to Detective Inspector Lestrade. She reached for her cat Toby and scooped him into her arms as the technicians swarmed into her flat. "I thought it seemed... out of character for you. You're not usually _that_ cruel."

"Molly, I would _**not**_ do something like that to you willingly."

"I believe you," she said. She put the panicking Toby into his carrier, yelping as he scratched her in his fear. She retreated into the kitchen and tried to keep out of the way. "'She'?"

Sherlock chewed his lip before admitting, "My sister."

Molly looked up in surprise, "You have a sister? You've never mentioned her..." She frowned thoughtfully, "Though I suppose not, if she's given to bomb threats and forcing you to play cruel tricks on your friends."

"You have no idea," Sherlock agreed with a gusty sigh.

"Positive," one of the technicians called. Another poked her head into the kitchen, "Ma'am? Sir? We're going to need you to clear the area."

"'Positive', you.. you mean you...?" Molly swallowed hard, tasting acid. _They found a bomb. They found a bomb in my flat. There's a bomb in my flat._ "...excuse me..." She turned and threw up into the kitchen sink. She felt Sherlock rubbing her back, murmuring apologies over and over and over again. She wiped her mouth and picked up Toby's carrier and focused on putting one foot in front of the other until they were a safe distance away. Then she turned and buried her face against Sherlock's chest and cried.

"Molly, I'm sorry," he said again. 

She nodded and sat back to wipe her face with the back of her hand. "Why me? Because I'm your friend?"

Sherlock gazed at her for a moment. There was an odd glint of hope mixed in with the anxiety, then he nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry," he said sadly, then blurted, "If it's any consolation, I completely destroyed the coffin."

Molly blinked. "Coffin? There was a coffin?" She felt like throwing up again.

Sherlock winced. "Yes. That's how I knew you were the target, it was--"

"I don't want to know."

"I don't want to tell you."

She bent down to check on Toby and give herself a few moments. Finally she straightened up and looked at him. "Thank you for saving my life," she said quietly, "Even if you had to break my heart to do it."

Sherlock bit his lip, looking pained. "If it's any consolation, we're sort of.. in the same situation."

"The unrequited love boat? Sounds like a bad sitcom," Molly sighed, then glanced back at him. "...John?" she whispered.

Sherlock looked away then lowered his head and nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you." He looked up, eyes anxious, "Are we... still friends?"

Molly reached out to hug him again, "Yes." She felt Sherlock sag with relief and felt her own body heave as well.

They separated as Mycroft and Lestrade approached. Lestrade offered her a cup of water, which she used to rinse the bile out of her mouth.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said softly, "There are indications that there may be more than one device. It will take some time to ensure the safety of your flat. Accommodations have been arranged for you and Toby in the meantime. If you would step this way...?"

She nodded, feeling numb as she bent to pick up Toby's carrier. "Thank you," she said automatically. Then she glanced back at Sherlock and said more earnestly, "Thank you." Then she followed Sherlock's brother to the waiting car. 

Sherlock watched her go and felt a light touch at his elbow. "Alright?" Lestrade asked quietly. 

Sherlock blew out a sigh and scrubbed a hand through his hair, "Better than I'd hoped. Molly's more willing to listen."

"Tea?"

"Yes."

He turned to follow Lestrade and a shadow detached itself from a nearby doorway becoming

John.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is confronted by Mount St. Watson.

They stared at each other. Sherlock looked confused; John, accusing. "'Just like Bart's'," John repeated softly, "'John was going to die if you didn't do that.' Sherlock? What the hell did Molly mean by that?"

Sherlock's heart raced wildly and his mouth opened but no sound came out. Lestrade looked from one to the other as he realized, "You didn't know? Sherlock, you did tell him, right?"

"Tell me what," John's voice was far too even.

"About the assassin," Lestrade said, "There were assassins set on all three of us, you, me, and Mrs. Hudson. To force Sherlock to jump."

"No, actually, he never told me this," John said tightly. 

Even Lestrade could see the heat was rising. "For God's sake, Sherlock, why didn't you tell him?"

Sherlock finally found his voice, "Because Moriarty's death didn't end the terms of the contract. There was no recall code."

Lestrade felt his own stomach sway as he worked it out, "So when you reappeared in London..."

John was looking a little too volcanic. Sherlock kept his eyes on Lestrade, "The contract was reactivated."

"So there was an active assassin on John, wonderful. And you still didn't tell him??"

"By the time I'd worked it out, he'd already married her! What was I to have said?! How should I have handled that? You know it's not my area!" 

"What." 

Sherlock snapped off abruptly, reluctantly looking towards John. "Bit of an awkward conversation," he tried.

But John was seething. "Are you telling me - _**now**_ , of all times - that _my wife_ was **sent to kill me**??"

Sherlock's manner shifted ever so subtlely. _Shields up,_ Lestrade thought, watching. "May have been. A former assassin, trained as a nurse, takes a job with a man with an active contract on his head... bit much of a coincidence," Sherlock said. 

John sucked in a breath, eyes going wide as he gathered himself in, weight shifting, fists balling, his energy rising. Sherlock flinched and his face went blank, steeling himself, bracing for impact

"At ease, _Captain!_ " Lestrade barked. John snapped automatically to attention then stared as Lestrade seized his arm and yanked him around, "We're going for some tea, yeah? **Now!** "

Leaving Sherlock standing confused on the sidewalk, watching as Lestrade all but dragged John away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has had enough of Captain John H. Oblivious.

"Sit," Lestrade ordered, and John's body dropped him into the chair. He remained silent and bolt upright as Lestrade thumped a mug of tea in front of him, set his own cup down, and sat down beside him instead of at his desk. "I know exactly where Sherlock's bruises came from, at that hospital. How Sherlock cracked his ribs. I've worked enough domestic assault cases, even without Culverton Smith's eye-witness testimony. I know exactly what I was seeing back there, _Captain_ Watson." He watched John carefully, noting which muscles twitched and how. "How long has this been going on?"

"Too long," John whispered.

"And what triggers it?"

"I... He never tells me things."

"Like?"

"Like what he's doing, what he's planning. Like having a _fucking assassin_ on me, he never lets me in, he..."

Lestrade held up a hand, cutting John off, making him aware that he'd been shouting again. "Can't imagine why," Lestrade sniffed, "He was bracing himself. He _was_ telling you, telling you something you didn't want to hear, and he was bracing himself. He _knew_ you were going to go off like this. So this happens often enough for him to predict it and to have formed a defensive reaction and a preference for avoidance." John stared at his tea. "But he's not the only one with a preference for avoidance, is he."

John's head snapped up, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've watched you. Both of you. Whenever he tries to talk to you about things, you shut him down and walk away. You don't want to hear it."

John scrubbed his hair with a frustrated sigh, "I **tried** to get him to talk to me, Greg! But all he would say was 'Moriarty had to be stopped.' He never said **anything** about an assassin on me or about an active contract or **anything** like that. Why the hell not?!"

"You're shouting again."

John stared at his tea again. 

"He said 'Molly was more willing to listen,'" Greg continued, "He was fucking **scared** of talking to Molly. **Molly!** " He took out his phone and set it on the desk. He opened an app and pressed play, and forced John to listen to the whole exchange. 

John dropped his face into his hand. "Christ, I sound just like my father," he whispered, when it was over, "I'm just like my Da."

"And the drinking?" John looked away. "You've got a daughter now, John. How is she going to grow up? There's a lot you don't want to hear, when you've got a child. Is she going to grow up flinching and bracing herself for your rage, too? Like Sherlock?"

"He's not exactly guiltless, either, you know," John snapped, "You want to know the shit he's pulled on me?"

"Let's hear it," Greg said, and listened while John ranted about the bomb on the train under Downing Street, and Culverton Smith's hospital at Mary's behest. "That's pretty shit," he agreed, "And I agree, he's a manipulative bastard sometimes."

"Too right!!"

"Would he have had to do any of that if you hadn't kept shutting him down? If you had just let him talk? Heard him out?" John stared at him and thumped back into his chair. "It's also pretty shit that he had to go to those extremes just to get you to talk to him." John fell completely silent. "What is it you're afraid of? What is it you don't want to hear?"

John said nothing. He took a sip of his lukewarm tea. "There's the drugs," he said finally, "I broke with my sister because she started drinking like Da."

"What's your bill been lately?"

John looked away. "Been more beer than tea, lately. And whiskey."

"Heartbreak does that to a man," Greg agreed, "Beer and whiskey are my self-medication too. Sherlock uses coke and morphine."

"I.. heard him say he was in the same situation as Molly."

Greg watched John carefully, "Yes."

"You said 'heartbreak'..."

"Well?"

John looked up, "Why don't they want him? Anyone in their right mind would!"

Greg raised his eyebrows. _A-ha._ "He's a man," he shrugged.

"So it's another bloke."

Lestrade shrugged again, "Is this really a surprise?"

John shook his head and swallowed his cold tea. "He doesn't know what he's missing."

"What is he missing?"

"Only the most... incredible...." John trailed off and shook his head. "Who is it?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows again. _You really don't know? Seriously? You really haven't figured it out? Or are you really that deep in denial?_ "Why? What would you do if you knew?"

"I'd tell him what a fucking moron he's being, letting that get away! Only the most loyal _dumbfuck_ I've ever met and I've been through the army! He'll never meet anyone else like that, _never_. He's a fucking **fool** to let something as as as _trivial_ as that get in the way of having, of having **that** , that kind of, of loyalty, of kindness, of compassion and awareness and perception, I mean **yes** there's the experiments and **yes** there's the fridge full of body parts and **yes** there's the occasional shitty manipulation but, but, there's the fucking _crazy_ deadpan sense of humour and the kindness and the brilliance and he's... he's throwing all of that away!"

Greg stared at him. "You'd say that, would you? All of that? You'd tell him that?"

"Fucking hell yes, I would."

"Alright," Greg set his tea down and turned to point, "I'll tell you. He's down the end of that hall, on the right. Off you go, then."

John hesitated for a moment, then squared his shoulders, tugged down his jacket, and swung the office door open. He marched down the hall and pushed through the door on the right, finding himself in the men's locker room. He turned the corner to find a full-length mirror and nothing else. The locker room was empty. He turned to go back to tell Greg there was nobody there. Then the penny finally dropped and he turned to look back at his reflection. 

"Well?" Greg said, coming up behind him, "Go ahead, then. There he is, he's standing right there. Tell him what you told me."

John's mouth worked silently. "It's... I'm..... I'm not..."

"Trivial? Throwing away the most loyal dumbfuck you've ever met? A fucking fool?"

John sagged and looked away, "That last bit, yes. He deserves... so much better than me."

"You've never forgiven him, have you," Greg said.

"For dying on me? Of course, I've forgiven him."

"Not for that." The silence stretched out. "I can't look away a third time, John."

"I know."

* * * *

It was a long walk home, only to remember that he'd left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson. Then it was a long walk to Baker Street. He passed by 221B and saw lights and movement in the new windows, so he went up to have a look. 

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson stood in the sitting room, discussing the restorations. Sherlock had Rosie on his hip and was swaying, addressing his comments to her as much to Mrs. Hudson. Rosie giggled and squealed. She waved her fist and Sherlock turned to look at her. "And what would you like, then, hmm? Some milk?" He raised his free hand and made a single-handed version of the BSL sign for 'milk' that looked decidedly rude. Rosie waved her fist again and a bottle of milk was offered. "Aha!" Sherlock smiled at her, "Your experiment appears to be a success - sign for milk and receive milk. Well done, Watson." Then he caught sight of John and something must have showed on John's face because both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson suddenly looked apprehensive, and John

spun on his heel and walked out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What John did next.

It's him. 

That... in retrospect, it

That changed

Everything.

_Everything._

Whatever happened to "I consider myself married to my work"?

Apparently that had changed.

When?

Did it matter?

Yes it did

Before

Before Bart's. Before the fall. Before everything went to pot. 

It was him. It was _him,_ he

Suddenly understanding

Why he couldn't... Why he couldn't just **tell** him... 

Because then he would know, wouldn't he? 

He would know how Sherlock felt about him. He would _know._

_"And if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay!"_

He'd fucking **heard** that. The bastard had been listening and he'd **heard**...

And so he couldn't just **tell** him... 

Couldn't tell him _why_...

Because then he would know. And understand. 

And be upset

And push him away

_Oh, God!_

And push him away, like a fucking _fool._

The dreams

He'd been having... _dreams_.... Ever since Sherlock came back. 

Hadn't understood why he'd felt so _anguished_ when Sherlock pulled out that ring. Like he'd lost something, something precious he'd never had in the first place. 

Like he'd lost a chance he'd given up ages ago. 

_"Do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it."_

And hadn't that been strange? 

God, he'd felt so confused after that, for **weeks** after that, so very confused as to why such a straight, married man should feel like he'd missed out on the most loyal, caring Jesus fuck, _the wedding_ , oh God, the _**wedding**_

_"Before you know it."_

The fucking wedding and he was still paying for it. Christ. Sherlock... 

It was all right there, wasn't it. It was. For everyone to see except him. Except the man who didn't want to see. Except the man who'd turned away, so he wouldn't have to see, see that it was him. 

_"I saw an opportunity." "You saw the kitchen."_

It was who he didn't see.

_"It's always been you."_

**FUCK!**

Whiskey down the wall. Have to clean that up. Don't want to risk Rosie crawling around over it and getting cut. Christ, when did he get to be so violent? When did he start acting like Da?

_And how the hell do I stop?_

Can't keep going like this, can't turn into Da. Can't let Rosie grow up like Harry, like him.

_"Go to hell, Sherlock. Go to hell and save John Watson."_

He wasn't that man. That's the man he wanted to be but it wasn't the man he was. _What man does Sherlock see, when he looks at me?_

_"Get you a piece of that."_

_But you had you some of that, didn't you? Only it wasn't Irene Adler. It was me._

_Why did you come back **then**? Of all the times you could have chosen to show up, why **then**?_

_If you had only... Even an hour before... Even half an hour...._

_Why **then?**_

The damned _dreams_...

Why did a straight married man feel like he had lost a chance he'd never had, never wanted? Unless he **had** wanted it. 

The woman on the bus

The one who'd reminded him of Sherlock, with her sharp cheekbones and sharp eyes. She was Sherlock's sister. 

Even his therapist, she'd reminded him of Sherlock, the way she pulled deductions from thin air, slicing through his bullshit to cut through to the heart of the matter. She was Sherlock's sister. 

He was attracted to her because she'd reminded him so much of Sherlock.

_"He's out there and he likes you and he's alive and do you have the first idea of how lucky you are?!"_

And he remembered her voice, echoing down the well, distorted by distance and rock and water and whatever the hell she'd drugged them with. 

Mocking him. Congratulating him for successfully breaking Sherlock's heart more thoroughly than she ever could. 

_Christ._ He'd thought he'd dreamed that. Hallucination. It wasn't. _Man, you know you're really fucking it up when you get a lecture from Eurus Holmes._

_"You've never forgiven him, have you."_

No.

...No.

He needed to end this.

........He became aware of what he was staring at. What he'd been staring at all along. 

The only light in the room was from the streetlamps outside. He sat up and looked around. How long had he been sitting like this? In the dark, staring at his sidearm? Oh God, what had he done with Rosie?

He checked his phone - seventeen text messages and three voicemails. Asking if he was alright, asking if he was coming back for Rosie... Some from Sherlock, some from Mrs. Hudson. The last one was hours ago.

One from Greg. 

He grabbed his jacket, ignoring the mess on the floor, and stormed out of his flat. Maybe he'd get lucky and somebody would try to mug him along the way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't lucky, but he does have another talk with Lestrade. At 3:00 a.m. In a pub.

Police pubs stayed open later than most. Greg Lestrade didn't look up when another man sat at his table, across from him. 

"After Mary died, Sherlock said something to me," John said in a low voice, "He said, 'In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It's a currency I don't know how to spend.'" He drew a deep shuddering breath, "And I have never related so hard to anything else that man has ever said."

"And that's it, is it?" Greg said just as quietly, "You're a soldier. You're a doctor. You're more used to saving people than being saved."

"That's.... not the whole of it, but..."

Greg pushed himself upright to look at John. "It's funny he should say that. It seemed like he didn't have any problem after you shot that cabbie for him and yes I know about that. I'm not quite as unobservant as he says I am. He's a bit obvious when he's disturbed. All his filters go off. Don't they."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah, they do. And... yeah, you're right."

"I can tell you, he knew how to spend **that** currency. He spent it all on **you.** "

John looked down and looked away. "Can't say he got good value for his money," he said quietly, "Not lately, anyways. You must be wondering what he sees in me."

Greg, rather pointedly, said nothing. "I should thank you," he said instead, "You said some good things. Clarified a few things."

"What?"

"What set you off? Sherlock said you came by to get Rosie then you just up and left again. Why?"

"I don't know," John admitted. He pushed his hands through his hair and sighed heavily. "He was carrying her and showing her the progress on the flat. She was signing to him. She asked him for some milk. He taught her how to sign for milk..." He felt tears sting his eyes and blinked furiously to no avail. 

Greg stared at him. "Oh god," he sighed, "I'm not my therapist and I don't really know how she does this but... What does your head know about that?"

"Huh?" John stared at him blankly for a moment then frowned, "He's been teaching her baby BSL, I suppose. It's all the rage these days. Supposed to improve linguistic capability as well as lessen frustration for both child and parent. Supposed to stimulate the brain. Not really a surprise, then."

"And what does your heart know about that?"

Again John blinked at him, "About... baby signs? What's with these questions, Greg?"

"Just answer them. What does your heart know?"

"I... he..... They seemed.. happy. Rosie was happy, she was giggling and tugging his hair. He was rocking her. He was standing, carrying her, but he was swaying her. He keeps calling her 'Watson' instead of Rosie, I've no idea why he does that. He likes her. He asks about her a lot."

"And what does your gut know about that?"

"There's a bond there," John said sadly, after a few minutes' thought, "Enough of a bond for her to learn from him."

"And?"

John was quiet again. "It looked... right," he whispered, "It all looked... right. The flat, the two of them, the two of them in the flat... It was all _right._ " _"I wanted more. I still do."_

"You afraid he's going to replace you?"

"No!"

"You **want** him to replace you?"

"....No."

"Well?"

John scraped his hands down his face, " **I'm** not _right_ anymore."

Greg sighed heavily and rummaged in his wallet for a card. 

"What's this?"

"My therapist," Greg replied.

"You have a therapist?"

"I'm a **cop** , John, of course I've got a therapist. This one's done alright by me. Done alright by Sherlock, too."

John's eyebrows nearly lifted into orbit, " _Sherlock??_ You got _Sherlock_ to see a therapist?!"

"He says she's been effective. Give her a try, she uses different methods. She's used that 'head, heart and gut' thing on me a number of times, always turns up some things I hadn't considered."

"Like?"

"Like where you really want to spend that currency," Greg said levelly. John returned his gaze for all of five seconds before looking down. "I get it now. It's not that you're afraid of what you'll hear. It's that you're afraid of what you'll say." The silence stretched out. "Go home, John. It's nearly 3:00."

"It's still being rebuilt," John whispered, still looking at the table.

"Then it's a good time to invest."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes John an offer. John should probably refuse, for trivial reasons.

_"I know the two of you, and if I'm gone, I know what you could become."_

_And the way Sherlock had looked at him._

"Did you die to get out of our way?" John whispered. There was no answer. Mary's ghost had been silent since before Sherrinford. He would never know for sure. 

He spent the entire Tube ride wondering about what he was about to do, wondering if it was the right thing to do. His wife had just died, after all. He stood staring at the door, still wondering. But he would never know for sure. Then he picked up his gift, squared his shoulders, pushed the door open, went inside, and climbed the seventeen steps to the B flat. "Hullo!" he called.

The flat smelled of new flooring, new paint, and new wallpaper. A fire was merrily dancing in the fireplace, cheering him instantly, but not as much as the fluffy head that poked out of the main bedroom. "Oh hello," Sherlock said, "The heat's been turned on. It should be warm soon. They've installed a modern boiler and those new radiators that look historic but are much more efficient."

"I heard the power was coming back on today?"

Sherlock flipped a switch and the room flooded with light from the new fixtures, "The technician just left."

"Lovely!" John held up the bag he was carrying, "New kettle! First cup of tea in the new flat?"

"It's hardly new, John, just restored."

"Close enough," John grinned and took the bags into the kitchen. 

"Everything's up to code now," Sherlock said, "And then some. I had extra installed to accommodate the demand from the computers."

"What's this? A bar fridge?"

"For my experiments. Mrs. Hudson insisted."

"And you listened?"

"It seemed a better choice than being stuffed into the boot again." 

John's giggles echoed in the empty flat. "I have to admit, I was not expecting that."

"Neither was I." 

John giggled again. He came out of the kitchen carrying a pair of handsome mugs and a new tea set on an understated bamboo tray. "I thought these would be good for the better class of clients," he said, setting it down on the floor and plunking down cross-legged beside it. 

Sherlock did the same. "Yes. Cheers." They clinked their mugs and drank. 

John looked around at the redecorated flat. They were sitting exactly as they would have sat in their old chairs, he noted wistfully. He caught Sherlock looking at him out of the corner of his eye, chewing his lip. "What?"

"John, you... left, rather suddenly the other night... Did I....?"

John shook his head and blew out a sigh. He took another sip of tea before he replied, "No. No, it wasn't you. It's just... Seeing Rosie sign to you like that, ask you for milk and you giving it to her..."

"Was that... wrong? John, if I overstepped..."

John held up a hand, "You didn't, you didn't, Sherlock." He sighed, took another sip, and raked a hand through his hair. "It... It made me wish I could.. come home to that every night. That's all it was."

Sherlock tilted his head, "Why can't you?"

John blew another sigh, "It's a two-bedroom flat, ennit?"

"Yes. We can make the upstairs bedroom into Rosie's room."

"Yeah, I thought of that. And it's fine for me to stay with her while she's a baby but I can't stay there forever."

Sherlock shrugged, "You can have my room."

"And where are you going to sleep?"

Sherlock didn't meet John's eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was very small, "I'm sure I could get used to your snoring." John blinked. The flat was dead silent. "You said you wanted more," Sherlock whispered, still not looking at John, "So do I."

_"Do something while there's still a chance because that chance doesn't last forever."_ John stared into his tea. He thought of Molly. _"It's gone before you know it."_

_"He's right there and he likes you and he's alive."_

_"To let something as, as trivial as that, get in the way."_

"I did tell you to get yourself a piece of that..."

"I did have a piece of that," Sherlock's voice was tiny, "Then I destroyed it."

_It wasn't just you._ John looked away and sighed. "No," he said finally, "You didn't. It's still there, it's just... needs refurbishing, that's all. We can rebuild it." His lip twitched and he couldn't help himself, "We have the technology."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then got it, "Oh." He considered for a moment. "I don't think I have six million dollars."

John felt his mouth twist into a grin, "Well, if you won't be having that bedroom tax anymore..."

Sherlock flexed his brow, "True. That _will_ be a substantial savings." Then he glanced at John, with just the barest glimmer of hope. 

John looked around at the flat again. "Yes it will. I'll be able to make my nappies payments." They both grinned. Then John looked down at his tea. _What if it doesn't work?_

"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."

John blew out a breath and stared at him, "How are you even doing that, am I that predictable?!"

"At the moment? Yes," Sherlock replied, "It's a proposal that would have a significant impact on your living arrangements should the outcome be different from what is hoped for, it's quite expected you should have misgivings and desire to have alternative plans in place."

John nodded, then, "'Hoped for'?" And watched as Sherlock's eyes promptly slid away. "What outcome are you hoping for?" 

"It's not about..."

"Yeah, I think it is," John interrupted, "Because all this time, I thought 'married to your work', and even not long ago you were saying you 'don't do relationships', and here you are proposing I share your bed and you could get used to my snoring."

"John... I know that you're..."

"Agreeing to it," John broke in again, "And... hoping for it." He put his cup down and took Sherlock's hands. "I'm... turning into someone I joined the army to avoid. Even with _her,_ " he stared at the scars on Sherlock's wrists, "Even with her. But... I liked who I was when I was with you." Sherlock nodded very slowly. John swallowed hard then looked up to meet his eyes, "So... Let's give it a try. You and me. Together. Like that."

"Alright," Sherlock said faintly. He twisted his hands to lace his fingers through John's. "Although I feel compelled to point out that it should be 'you and I' not 'you and me.'" And John lost it giggling, feeling lighter than he had in years.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We all say we want someone who wants us for ourselves, and then we put all these limits around it."

"There you are," Sherlock said, "Not easy to find, he's actually got a very skilled accountant, but there's everything you need to secure a conviction."

Detective Inspector Lestrade took the USB stick with a satisfied sigh, "Thanks. I really wasn't comfortable letting it go but the department didn't want to spend resources on it. I'm a little surprised you took it on, though."

Sherlock shrugged, "The clients are from the BSL community."

Lestrade gave him a sidelong look. Sherlock had always done a lot of _pro bono_ work, being more interested in the puzzles than the financial compensation, and it shouldn't be surprising given his extensive homeless network, but for some reason, people always were. But he had never turned away people who were disenfranchised, out of luck and out of options. He nodded, "Ah right, see, I didn't know that part. That information wasn't given to me, I was just told it had been a case of small-time wages embezzlement."

Sherlock shrugged and nodded, "Being cheated out of their wages, when the department turned them down, they came to me."

Greg nodded. He looked away for a moment, then glanced down. "I'm sorry, again, if I made things worse."

Sherlock wished he had a cigarette to drag off of. "You didn't," he said finally. 

Greg nodded and looked away. He dithered a few moments before asking, "How's Mycroft?" Sherlock glanced at him then glanced again. Greg looked away, then at the pavement. Sherlock stared briefly into the middle distance, blinking. "John... made a few good points," Greg said softly.

Sherlock blinked a few more times before answering. "He's fine. He's gone to his cottage on Jura. I'm going up to visit soon."

"Is he still...?"

"Yes, but he sends me photographs. He's taken up oil painting. He's taking classes, see?" Sherlock put his phone away and shrugged, "Mycroft doesn't talk much anyways unless he has to. He owns a silent club, I'm really not sure why this is such a surprise to people. He's only withdrawn from London, not from the world."

Greg nodded. "Well, when you visit him," he glanced down again, "Tell him I asked after him." Sherlock regarded him for several moments then looked away. Greg looked around a bit then looked away again, "How about you?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a few moments. "John's coming back."

"Not sure how I feel about that, to be honest," Lestrade admitted. 

Sherlock looked down at a spot a few feet from his toes. "To be honest, neither do I."

Greg nodded, "You used to be good for each other."

"I'm hoping we still can be."

"Look, I, uh... I gave him Doctor Taylor's card."

Sherlock nodded, "He knows he needs one, he just makes terrible choices."

"I really can't argue with that," Greg sighed.

"Mm. Well, I'm pretty sure Doctor Taylor won't shoot him," Sherlock chuckled. 

* * * *

"My **last** therapist shot me."

"Shooting patients isn't standard psychological procedure," Greg said. He paused a moment and added conscienciously, "However much the clinicians might want to."

John felt the ghost of a smile twitch his lips. " _And_ she was Sherlock's sister!"

"Was she any good?"

"She was, actually, up until she stiffed me on the last ten minutes."

Greg laughed and shook his head. Nobody had as morbid a sense of humour as a veteran soldier, not even a cop. He raised his pint and took a sip, then signalled the server for another basket of chips. The pub was relatively quiet, being after the regular evening rush but before the Met shift change. "How's Sherlock?"

"He's off to Jura to stay with Mycroft for a bit."

"Not what I meant. He dodged me, too," Greg said, "How _is_ he?"

John hesitated and looked away. "Skittish," he said finally, "He's definitely walking on glass around me. I hate that and I hate myself for putting him there. I don't know how he's been sleeping, when he sleeps. If he sleeps. He's been staying at Mycroft's place while the flat is being restored." He hesitated again. Greg stayed silent, leaving space and waiting for John to fill it. "He does seem a bit better. Sherlock, I mean."

"He said you're moving back?"

John sighed, feeling a knot untwist somewhere deep inside. Greg noted a tiny smile twitch the corners of John's mouth. "Yeah, it... it just feels right. I mean, it's easier on both of us financially but..."

"But?"

John heaved another sigh, "I realized how much I want to go home. My place, it doesn't feel like home. It never has. 221B felt like home the moment I set foot in it. It still does. And it needs Sherlock in it."

Greg nodded. He hesitated for a few moments then, "Thanks. For... what you said, the other time, in the locker room. It..." he blew out a heavy sigh, "Helped me clarify a few things."

John paused and looked at him. "Greg? You...?"

Greg didn't look at him but nodded, "Yeah, there's... someone, yeah. A man. Yeah. And you were right. To let something that trivial stand in the way..." He took a long pull off his pint. "We all say we want someone who wants us for ourselves, and then we put all these limits around it."

"Yeah, we do, don't we," John sighed. 

"So... yeah, thanks. It's... it's good to know I'm not the only one."

John looked at him and sat up straighter. "No, you're not," said Captain Watson, "And we'll get through this. We're going to make this work, whatever it ends up being."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John's turn to visit Doctor Taylor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a warning for detailed alternative psychological therapy techniques.

"And you're not listening, and he's been trying to talk to you all along and you're having none of it, and you need to learn to listen. And when you're having none of it, what kind of having none of it is that?"

"I don't want to hear it."

"And when you don't want to hear it, what happens next?"

"I blow up at him."

"And you blow up at him. And when you blow up at him, that's blow up like... what?"

"......"

"....."

"..... I go off on him, like a mine. It's like stepping on a mine."

"And it's like stepping on a mine. And what kind of mine is that mine?"

"It's an... anti-personnel mine. It's buried, small... a fragmentation mine."

"And it's anti=personnel, buried, small, fragmentation... And where could a mine like that have come from?"

"Afghanistan. No..."

"And whereabouts is a mine like that?"

"It's buried, in the ground, it... it feels like... it's in here."

"And it feels like it's in here. And is there anything else about a mine like that?"

"....."

"....."

"..... It does a lot of damage, to a lot of people. It rips people to shreds. It eviscerates them."

"And when stepping on a mine like that, what happens next?"

"It explodes. It hurts everyone around."

"And he's been trying to talk to you, and you don't want to hear it, and you blow up, and stepping on a mine like that, and explodes, and damage, and rips people to shreds..."

"*silently weeping*"

"...And when he's trying to talk to you and you don't want to hear it, what would you like to have happen?"

"*wiping face* I'd **like** him to just drop it. Just leave off. But that's no good, is it?"

"And when drop it and just leave off, what happens next?"

"Nothing. Nothing gets solved. He's still him and I'm still......."

"....."

"....."

"And when he's trying to talk to you and you don't want to hear it, what would you like to have happen?"

"*heavy sigh* I need to learn to listen."

"And you need to learn to listen. And when you learn to listen, what kind of listen is that listen?"

"It's... well, it's paying attention, isn't it? It's listening. Someone gives the orders and you listen."

"And when you're listening at your best, you're like.... what?"

"Calm. Attentive. Standing at ease."

"And when stand at ease, what kind of stand at ease is that stand at ease?"

"It's a semi-formal stance. *gets up, demonstrates* It's calm, collected, attentive.. receptive."

"And stand at ease is calm, collected, attentive, receptive. And is there anything more about that stand at ease?"

"Not really... I default to it sometimes, I've been told. People have said... heh, I guess I never really realised how often I stand that way. The last time was... heh, that was pretty good..."

"It's alright..."

"Hm?"

"And when stand at ease, whereabouts is that stand at ease?"

"...."

"...."

"... It's... it's.... It feels rooted.... Grounded. In here, maybe?"

"And that stand at ease feels rooted, grounded, in here, and calm, collected, attentive, receptive... And is there anything more about that stand at ease?"

"....."

"....."

"*shakes head*"

"And when stand at ease, and rooted and grounded, and calm and attentive and receptive and listening at your best, is there a relationship between stand at ease and a mine like that?"

"*breath explodes* Oh my God! *covers face*"

"....."

"*shuddering*"

"....."

"It... There's no... When I don't know what's going on... I don't.... I can't..."

"....."

"*hard breathing* ....... *shuddering*"

"And you don't know what's going on, and you don't and you can't, and when you don't and you can't, that's like... what?"

"I can't... and it's just so fucking angry all the time, like the Hulk, and then it explodes!"

"And it's like the Hulk, and what kind of Hulk is that Hulk?"

"The Hulk, he's... He's a hero but he's a monster. He transforms into a monster when he gets angry. Bruce Banner deals with it by staying angry all the time.. oh God...!"

"And is there anything more about that Hulk?"

".... on the telly, he was played by Lou Ferrigno. He's deaf.... Christ...."

"And when angry all the time, what kind of angry is that angry?"

"It's like a simmering rage, it's... it's like a bubbling pot on the hob. It looks happy enough, simmering away like that, but underneath, it's burning."

"And a bubbling pot, and whereabouts is that bubbling pot?"

"Here. God.... it's right here. I can feel it. Christ."

"And it's right here and you can feel it. And is there anything more about that bubbling pot?"

".... It's been cooking for a while. A _long_ while."

"And when bubbling pot, what would you like to have happen?"

"Well I'd better serve the soup, hadn't I? *laughter* it's only been simmering for God knows how long. It's probably half disintegrated by now."

"And what kind of soup is that soup?"

"Well, it's been simmering for a while, it's got to be pretty rich by now. Pretty flavourful, pretty good. Might be halfway to curry by now. *laughter*"

"Is there anything more about a rich, flavourful, good soup?"

"It's probably pretty good. *smiles*"

"It's okay..."

"Hm?"

"And is there a relationship between serving a rich, flavourful, good soup, and a stand at ease that's calm, attentive, receptive, listening at your best?"

".........."

"......"

"..........................."

"....."

"................"

"....."

".....I've never thought of it like that. There is one but hell if I can say what it is."

"And when there's a relationship between a rich flavourful soup, and a stand at ease, what would you like to have happen?"

"..............."

"....."

"......................."

"....."

"............ *shakes head*"

"And whereabouts is that relationship?"

"......... here. Yes. Here. I can feel it here. It's warm and safe and in control."

"And he keeps trying to talk to you but you don't want to hear it, and you need to listen, and calm, attentive, receptive stand at ease, and serving a rich flavourful soup.. and is there anything more about all of that?"

"No.... No, I think that's..."

"And can that happen?"

"I think so. Yes."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John listens.

_Alright. Let's get on with this._

"Sherlock," John began, "I need to ask... Why _then?_ At the restaurant, when you came back... Why did you show up _then?_ " He watched Sherlock's eyes slide away, watched the subtle shifts in his facial muscles. "I mean, I realized why you didn't text first. I'd changed my number four times after all the harassment I got. But, Sherlock, an hour... even half an hour earlier, Sherlock...!" John swallowed. He felt the rage building, felt his mine priming to go off. He deliberately put his hands behind his back and stood at ease, and felt himself collect. 

But Sherlock was looking at him like he was baffled and shaking his head slightly. "I wasn't in London yet an hour earlier. I sought you out as soon as I was authorised to leave. As soon as I was medically cleared and cleaned up, I went to look for you. I came to you as soon as it was possible for me to do so."

John stared at him, feeling his rage draining out through his feet.

Sherlock frowned, "Did you... think it was deliberate?"

_That you had purposefully waited just until I was about to propose to Mary?_ John looked away and swallowed, remembering how flustered Sherlock had been. _That's it then. That's all it was. Just bad timing. That's all it was. Murphy's Law._ He looked back at Sherlock. 

"I suppose I have fallen into some bad habits of my own, for you to think so little of me."

John looked down. The rage was subsiding, leaving only an aching sadness. He looked up again, "'Medically cleared?'" And watched as alarm bells immediately began ringing in Sherlock's head. So this was another thing he didn't want to hear. "'Medically cleared and cleaned up', you said."

"There was a spot of trouble." And he'd learned to recognise the sound of Sherlock dodging, too.

And then he realised he hadn't seen Sherlock without a shirt since Sherlock's return. Even at the hospitals. Even after they started sharing a bed, Sherlock always wore a t-shirt. 

So did John. 

He swallowed and gazed up at Sherlock. "May I see?" he asked quietly.

"John, it's nothing. It's fine, I don't think about it."

"Neither do I," John whispered. 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment then looked away. He unbuttoned his shirt then turned around, letting the shirt slip down his shoulders.

John felt the rage start to rise again. _You never told me about this. You never mentioned it._ He swallowed again. _No - this is on me. I never realised. I never noticed you were hurt. I'm a doctor, I'm a fucking **army doctor** and I never noticed. Of course you didn't mention it, no one ever wants to mention it._ Sherlock turned around again and John raised his hands and peeled off his own jumper and shirt. 

Sherlock kept his face blank. He'd suspected, certain things John had said, certain habits that he kept had planted the possibility in Sherlock's mind long ago. Without quite realising it, he reached up to touch the starburst at John's shoulder.

John's hand came up to cup the dished scar at Sherlock's ribs. 

"She shot you," John said softly, "Why did she shoot you?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I suppose I was being annoying."

"She was an assassin. You said she might have been assigned to kill me if you were alive. Then you said I could trust her."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know what she was really thinking, John, I can only speculate."

"She panicked when that Moriarty gif appeared."

"Further evidence that she was assigned to you, albeit circumstantial."

"But you said I could trust her," John said again.

"John, I can only speculate, but I believe she had a genuine change of heart. I believe much of her behaviour can be traced to her _not_ wanting to see that contract fulfilled."

"Such as?"

"Her behaviour upon Ajay's reappearance, before she tried to disappear to draw him off."

"You think... she might have thought he'd been sent to fulfill her contract with Moriarty."

"Yes."

John sighed heavily. "I wish you'd told me all of this sooner."

"I didn't know.. I wasn't sure," Sherlock said softly, "And you were happy with Mary. Well... you appeared to be... I thought you were happy with Mary."

"In other words, I was doing a bang-up job of faking it," John said dryly.

"Apparently."

"Enough to fool you."

"Yes," Sherlock said and frowned. 

John grinned widely for a few seconds. He let the grin fade from his face as he thought about it. "I was... some of the time, yes," he admitted, then looked up at Sherlock, "But I'm happier with you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes the next step.

"That worked," John sighed, "We actually got somewhere. So.. yeah. Thank you." Doctor Taylor tipped her head and smiled. "So... what now?"

"What would you like to have happen?"

"It's... I don't know. Those questions really get into your head, don't they? I keep asking myself. I don't know. It's like..."

"Like?"

"Greg keeps asking if I've forgiven him. I thought I knew what he meant but... I'm not so sure. I feel like.. there's something else."

"And when you feel like there's something else, does that feeling have a shape?"

"It.... It's.... black. Dark. Hiding. Lurking, somewhere."

"And whereabouts is that black, dark, hiding, lurking feeling?"

"It's..." John blew out another sigh, staring out the window again but not for the same reasons. These sessions really got him thinking. "It's... back here, somewhere, I don't know... It really doesn't want to be found. Or I really don't want to find it."

"And that's black, dark, hiding, lurking, not wanting to be found, not wanting to find it, like.... what?"

"Like.... a......... a badger? I guess that's not really black, is it?"

"And a badger that's black, dark, hiding, lurking, doesn't want to be found, don't want to find it... and is there anything more about a badger like that?"

"I guess it lives in a hole, doesn't it? If it's a badger, it must live in a hole. I guess whatever it's hiding is in that hole." 

"And badger is black and dark and lurking and hiding something in a hole, and where could a badger like that come from?"

John scraped his hands through his hair and thought for a long time. "My childhood," he said at last, "It's a hairy badger." 

"And a hairy badger from your childhood, and black and dark and lurking and hiding something in a hole... and what does a badger like that want to have happen?"

"...It's protecting something, or protecting it from something. I don't know which."

"And hairy badger that's black and dark and lurking and hiding something and protecting... and is there a relationship between a hairy badger that's hiding and protecting and something else to forgive?"

_A Harry badger._ John's breath exploded out of him and he pressed his temples. "I don't... I don't want to know. I don't want to say. Fucking **everybody** fucking wants me to say!" He cut himself off abruptly. "....that badger's hissing now."

"And badger is hissing now... and you don't want to know and you don't want to say... and badger is hissing now...."

"....Shit."

"And when badger is hissing now, what does badger want to have happen?"

"Just... just leave it alone. Just.... leave it alone."

"And you don't want to know and you don't want to say, and badger is hissing now, and leave it alone... and when leave it alone, what happens next?"

" **Fuck.** " He scrubbed his face again and sighed, "It just gets bottled up again, doesn't it? Just shoved back into the hole. _Fuck._ "

"And there's something else to forgive, and a hairy badger that's black and dark and lurking and hiding something and protecting, and you don't want to know and you don't want to say, and badger is hissing now, and leave it alone, and bottled up and shoved back into the hole... and is there a relationship between all of that and a mine that..."

"OHHHHHHHHH FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF **UCK**!!!" John howled, spiralling up out of his seat. He stalked back and forth, dragging his hands through his hair. "How do you do that?! No. No. I'm done. I'm... I can't do this, I'm done."

"You've still got twenty minutes."

John stopped and pursed his lips. "My last therapist stiffed me on the last ten. You're right," he said and sat back down. He put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

Doctor Taylor watched him. "What do you want to have happen?" she said carefully.

"There is a relationship," John said finally, "You're right. If I leave, it.. it all just.. stokes the mine. It just primes the mine. Fuck." He wiped his hands down his face, "I fucking near exploded right then, didn't I?" He thought about it then got up and stood at ease. He felt the tension drain down and pool low in his stomach, there but collected. "Alright. Yes. Let's go ahead. Fifteen minutes, now, right?"

"I won't charge you extra," Doctor Taylor grinned. John chuckled and felt more tension drain, lowering his shoulders. "Okay? And... badger is dark and lurking and hiding something and protecting, and you don't want to know and don't want to say, and hissing, and leave it alone, and bottled up and shoved back into the hole, and done, and primes a mine like that... And when badger is hissing, what would you and badger like to have happen instead?"

John exhaled heavily. He stared out of the window for a few more minutes then sat down with another sigh. "I can't keep going on that way, can I? I suppose I've got to face whatever its hiding down that hole."

"And what kind of hole is a hole like that?"

John sighed and covered his face with his hands. He stilled, then looked up, frowning, "There's light coming out of it. Heh. Okay."

"And there's light coming out of it. And what kind of light is that light?"

John shook his head, "Heh... Sherlock used to call me his 'conductor of light.' Never did understand what he meant by it."

"And Sherlock used to call you his conductor of light... and is there a relationship between his conductor of light and light hiding down that hole?"

"It's moonlight," John said, staring at memory, "Heh... There was that time, on the roof... Not that roof, the different roof... He was chasing a criminal. He was standing up on the roof and the moon was behind him. It was incredible. **He** was incredible."

"It's alright," Doctor Taylor said gently.

"Hm?" John glanced up at her. 

"And moonlight and incredible, and is there anything more about moonlight and incredible?"

"God," John tipped his head back and sighed, smiling at the memory, "It's like a bloody spotlight. Just blazing."

"And incredible and spotlight and blazing, and is there a relationship between a spotlight that's blazing and light hiding down that hole?"

"Yeah... Yeah there is."

"And whereabouts is that spotlight that's blazing?"

John sighed heavily, "Right in here."

"And badger is lurking and hiding and protecting, and badger is hissing, and face what's hiding down the hole, and incredible spotlight that's blazing... and when all of that, what difference does all of that make?"

"I don't know yet," John sighed, "I'll just have to find out."

"And can find out happen?"

"Yes."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light dawns on Kandahar

221B still smelled too new. Sherlock hadn't had time to start any lurid experiments yet, and John had been consuming what little take-away he'd bought, so there were none of the weird chemical and organic odours that made 221B smell... unlike any other flat in London, that was certain. Most people found it distasteful but to John, it smelled like home. 

Right now it smelled like fresh paint and paper, fresh carpet, fresh furniture and bedding, baby powder and pablum and nappies... well, like his other home. And he found that very unsettling indeed.

He put on his jacket and walked towards the door, jiggling his keys in his hand. "I'm picking up Rosie this afternoon, after I've seen my therapist," he said, "Got a new one, seeing her today."

"Are you gonna tell her about me?"

John shook his head, "No."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't. You _know_ I can't."

"You do know I'm dead, don't you?"

John turned around. "No," he said, "No, you're not. You're not. You're quite alive." He crossed the room to stand in front of the person smirking at him. "I see you, every time I look in the mirror, I see you. Your bloody temper, your anger, your sodding entitlement, your way of lashing out whenever people don't go the way you want them to, the way you take it out on anyone you claim you love -- it's all alive. In me. You gave it all to me, Da. You're alive and well in me."

"I **am** dead," his father countered, "Please, for your own sake, and for Rosie's and Sherlock's. This isn't real. I'm **dead.** "

"Sherlock?!" John snapped. He smiled, that terrifyingly calm mirthless smile he got when he was on his last nerve, "You've got a lot of gall bringing up Sherlock Holmes."

"Would have made a crack about bollocks," his father smirked, "But _I'm dead._ " The silence rang through the flat. "Why did you join the army, John? You became a doctor, then you joined the army. Why?"

"Because I was a shite doctor," John said, smiling mirthlessly, "Still am. I scare the people I try to help. Too angry. So I joined up. I hoped to learn to contain it. Instead it gave me somewhere to take it out on."

"And now you take it out on crooks."

"Yes. What about it?"

"Have you forgiven him?"

"For showing up too late?"

"For being a man." 

John's mouth opened but no sound came out. He looked away from his father. 

"John... I'm dead."

"You keep saying that."

"Because you're not listening. I can't judge you anymore. I can't make shite jokes and I can't call you names. I have no more expectations for you and I both to fail to live up to. I can't badger you anymore." John looked away again then looked back. "It's dark in here, John. Turn the light on."

John blinked awake. The late afternoon dusk filled the flat with a fading glow. His stomache rumbled. He sat up, working his shoulder, stiff from kipping on the couch, and reached for his phone. He smiled, noting the time stamp on the text, then opened his contacts list.

Ten minutes later, the flat door opened. John came out of the kitchen carrying two mugs of tea to see Sherlock staring at him as though drinking the sight of him. _Maybe he is,_ he thought. He felt warmth suffuse him and _there's the spotlights. God._ He sighed, watching as Sherlock set down his duffel bag containing his violin case, took off his coat and scarf, _exhausted, disturbed sleep, having trouble coping, struggling, craving coke, ate today but not enough, having nightmares_

_Oh_

_Is that where it went?_

_Bugger._

John set the tea down on the living room table and gave Sherlock a long hug. "Rosie will be waking up soon," he told him, "I'm just warming up her bottle. You can feed her when it's ready. There's tea and I've ordered delivery from Angelo's." He shooed Sherlock to the couch then went to get Rosie. 

He laid his sleeping daughter in Sherlock's arms and sat beside him, thighs touching. "How's Eurus?" he asked quietly.

"She twitched a few times," Sherlock answered. The strain in his voice was obvious. John wondered whether playing the violin would ever be relaxing for Sherlock again. "I suppose that's a response."

"It's a start," John agreed. He watched Rosie waking up, mewling grumpily as she turned her cheek towards Sherlock's shirt. He tested the temperature of the bottle, and handed it to Sherlock just as she started to complain of her hunger. "Look at that," he smiled, watching her waving her fists, "She's signing for milk."

"Probably just random movements," Sherlock said, taking the bottle, "But I prefer to believe otherwise." 

John shifted his position to lean against the arm of the couch, opening his arms and coaxing Sherlock to lean against his side. He felt the tension drain out of both of them as Rosie took her milk. "How's Mycroft?"

"Made his first sale," Sherlock said proudly, "Well.. I brokered it for him, but still."

"It still counts," John agreed. 

"He's coming home soon but he's going to take a little more time before going back to work."

"He's better?"

"Much better, though I wouldn't say fully recovered."

"No, I don't think one ever fully recovers from something like that," John said softly. He nuzzled Sherlock's hair and pressed a kiss to his head. Sherlock tilted his head to look at him and the guarded pain in his eyes made John's heart ache. He murmured something and John hmm'd to get him to repeat it. 

"You're my lighthouse," Sherlock whispered, and John

_It's like moonlight. It's like spotlights._

_"It's always been you. You keep me right."_

_"It's dark in here. Turn the light on."_

_'I feel like I'm drowning'_

_It's like spotlights._

_I'm his lighthouse._

_He's having to be the big brother for his big brother, he's having to be the big brother for his little sister, all the while trying to cope with being tortured and killing a man, and he's drowning._

_I'm his lighthouse. And I've got a great bloody spotlight._

_Turn the light on._

"You're doing fine," John said softly, "You're doing wonderfully. Mycroft is coming back, Eurus is reacting. Rosie's signing for her milk and I completely agree with you, those are definitely not a random movement, she absolutely is signing." Sherlock started to chuckle and turned to press his head beneath John's chin. "We're going to be alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for [Ariane_DeVere's transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/88998.html). And to [MirithGriffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirithGriffin) for the summary :3


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they all worked on their happily ever afters.

John looked up and swung a chair out, "Greg!"

"John," Lestrade grinned, sitting down, "God, you had to know that was going to happen at some point."

"What, you coming in for your appointment just as I was leaving mine?"

"Yeah," Greg looked over the pub menu then at John, "You're looking fit, though."

"Got a gym membership," John nodded, "Decided Doctor Taylor had the right idea."

"I always feel better after those little workouts," Greg agreed. 

"Well and it's a good way of working off my issues when we don't have a case," John sighed. He waited until Greg had acquired a pint before asking, "How are you and Mycroft?"

Greg pursed his lips, "I think we've fallen into what they used to call 'an arrangement.'" John burst into giggles. "You and Sherlock?"

"Likewise settled in," John said, "It took some time but we've figured some things out."

"Back to normal, then?"

"Better than normal."

Greg smiled slyly over his pint, "Yeah, it shows. There's comments around the Met, people have noticed how much happier you both are, now that you're back together."

John took a long pull off his pint and sighed, "Honestly, Greg, I didn't think I **could** be happy again, but he's been..." He looked away, unable to stop a little smile from tweaking his lips, "I mean, it's been a lot of effort on both our parts but it's been...."

"Worth it?"

" **Totally** worth it."

"Good," Greg smiled. He leaned back as the server brought a basket of chips, then leaned forward again, "And how's Rosie?"

Now John's smile blossomed fully. "Magic," he said, "Just magic. She's adorable and Sherlock's just fantastic with her. She's definitely signing now **and** she's starting to sign back!"

Greg's eyebrows lifted, "Already?"

"Mm-hmm," John said proudly, "She likely won't have her first words for another few months yet but she's definitely answering questions, not just expressing her wants anymore."

"That's fantastic!"

"She's growing up bilingual. I'm happy about that. My signing's shite."

Greg swallowed his chips and frowned, "You always seem pretty fluent to me, very fast and expressive."

"And all wrong," John said, "The other day Mr. Wilder at Diogenes complimented my latest blog post. I told him it was very ugly of him to say so and I'm glad he liked the fish."

Greg nearly sprayed his beer, choked swallowing, and then doubled over laughing, "Oh my God, John!"

"Yeah. Even Sherlock did a double-take at that one."

"Oh my God," Greg finally got himself under control, "Yeah, is it just me or has he developed a sense of humour?"

"He's always had one, just it's so off-the-wall and morbid that most people don't recognise it."

"But you do."

John shrugged, "I'm a soldier, we're pretty morbid, too. People are only noticing now because he's lightened up for Rosie." He swallowed his beer and set the mug down, "I didn't tell you this. Back when we were shopping for the bed, we were testing out the mattresses and he was bouncing on them."

Greg grinned widely, "As you do."

"As you do. And people were giving us looks and finally the sales person comes over and tells him off about it.

"Oh for God's sake."

"And Sherlock gives him the cockroach look."

Greg burst out laughing, "Oh my God, I know exactly the look you mean, you mean the one where he looks like he's now convinced you're actually a bunch of cockroaches in a skin suit and he's just waiting for a carapace to appear out your nostril to confirm it."

"That's the look exactly," John tipped his beer at him, "He gives him the cockroach look and says," and he did his best impression of Sherlock's 'mildly aghast what on earth are you thinking' voice, "'I just thought his daughter might like to jump on it.'" He grinned as Greg doubled over laughing again. "I wish now I'd cammed it. We left in a huff and bought the bed elsewhere but that was magic."

Greg wiped his eyes, "Fly on the wall stuff for sure."

"Yeah," John sipped his beer in silence for a few moments. "Thanks," he said finally, "For everything. For standing me in front of that mirror. I've got a long way to go but... it's better."

"Glad I could help," Greg nodded, "It's the least I could do, after all the help you two have given me all these years. Speaking of which..."

John's eyebrows lifted in hopeful anticipation and he took out his phone, "Case?"

"Looks like it. I'd like your opinions." 

John nodded, "I'll text Himself, then."

* * * *

The door creaked open and she looked up. And kept looking. The nose of a pram poked through and a hand struggled to keep the heavy door open. The door swung shut again, then opened a few moments later after her visitor decided it was simpler to turn the pram around and back into the room. Molly tried to bite down on her giggles and failed. "She actually fell asleep," Sherlock said, "I didn't want the door banging on her and waking her."

"No, of course not," Molly giggled, "May I see her? Oh goodness, she's grown!"

Sherlock nodded. "It has been a while," he said hesitantly. 

"Yeah," Molly sighed, "I just... I needed a little time."

An awkward silence stretched out. "You said you had some amygdalae?" Sherlock said at last. 

Molly nodded, relieved, "Yes, quite a few of them. A lot of them, actually. It's rather strange."

"Case?"

"Maybe," Molly nodded, "I told the Met but I thought I should tell you too. The Met's been a bit... unpredictable, lately." She took a bag out of the refrigerator and gave it to him. 

"Ah! Wonderful! And a possible case connected with them, fantastic, Molly, I love you." The words were out before he even realized. A leaden silence fell. "Um.. I mean.... That wasn't...."

"I know," Molly whispered.

Sherlock sighed, "I'm afraid we're no longer in the same boat."

"John?"

Sherlock looked away then looked down and nodded. 

"I'd heard," Molly said, "Are you happy?"

Sherlock looked down at Rosie, obliviously sleeping in her pram. He nodded. "I didn't think that was actually possible, for me. It appears I was wrong."

Molly smiled, "I'm glad. Don't worry about me, I'll get over it. I missed you, though."

"I missed you too," Sherlock said softly. He looked like he wanted to say something else, then looked at the bag. Then his text alert chimed. "Ah, there's John." He took out his phone and looked at the message, "With a case from........" he gave up, "Lestrade." He pecked off a response then looked up with disappointed realization, "That means bath night's off."

Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise, "Bath night?"

"There's this... Turkish hammam down around Marylebone that we've taken to. We sort of make a bit of a to-do about it, bottle of wine, dinner from Angelo's, that sort of thing."

"A date night?"

"I suppose it is. It's not as good as a case, of course."

_And yet you're disappointed at cancelling it,_ Molly thought, watching him. She smiled a little. "Well, um... Don't let me keep you," she said awkwardly, "Um.. You'll come 'round again?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes." Again he looked like he wanted to say something. He settled for "Thank you for the amygdalae," and pushed the pram out of the room. 

Molly sighed and went back to her lab bench. She startled when the door swung open again and Sherlock stepped through, holding onto the pram outside and wincing as the heavy door closed on his arm. "How do you feel about Bill Wiggins?" he blurted out. 

She looked puzzled, "Billy? He was... He's the young man who was with you that time when you were..."

"Yes yes, he's been 'round since then several times, running errands for me. I know you've talked."

Molly nodded and swallowed, "He's.. he's sweet.. I mean, he's alright, but... I mean, he's..."

"A user, yes yes, so am I. Well?"

Molly looked down. Fact is, she really liked Billy. He was sweet and shy and almost as clever as Sherlock. And yes, like Sherlock, he was a... user. "Why are you asking me this?"

"He's been selected to oversee London's first safe injection site," Sherlock said softly, "He was a chemist. Had a sight on developing anaesthetics when it all went wrong for him. He's very skilled and he's an excellent choice for this project." She glanced up at him. "He won't say anything himself. You're successful and he's a junkie. But you seemed interested?"

Molly nodded. "He's awfully sweet and he's... not boring," she looked away, uncomfortably remembering Tom. She looked up and smiled hopefully, "If he comes 'round tomorrow, we could get coffee."

"I'm sure there's an opening in his calendar," Sherlock smiled, and swirled out.


End file.
